


Bone Deep

by Hopetohell



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bruising, Gags, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26659987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: It isn’t difficult for him, deducing what you really need. You crave, not sharpness, but an ache that lingers.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	Bone Deep

“We are lonely creatures,” he says, looking out over the city. His silhouette in the window is all bulk, all power; you’re burning to ask how he got so god-damned _big,_ but it’s entirely too difficult to talk with a gag in your mouth. And it’s understandable, it really is. You’re enthusiastic and appreciative and loud, and he can’t hear himself think for the sound of your cries in his ear. 

“We are lonely creatures, and when we try to bridge the gap between us, words always seem to get in the way. Why do you think that is?” He turns to look at you, at your hands bound above your head, at your bare feet resting on the boards. At the leather gag that keeps you quiet, though drool beads at the corners of your mouth. He smiles as though at some private joke, then reaches up to press a red rubber ball into your hand. 

“Remember, pet. If you want to stop, all you have to do is open your hand.” And though you can’t think of any reason you would want to stop, you still give a single tight nod, to see his expression sharpen as he slips fully into the moment, to see animal instinct dig its way out from under his pleasantly indulgent gaze. He knows exactly what you need, knows because he so often needs it for himself. 

He kisses you then, over the leather, mocking, knowing how you crave the taste of him. Oh, he’s had you pegged from the first moment he saw you, when he deduced your greatest secret from the bruises almost hidden on your wrists, from the faintest wince when you sat, from the wistful way you’d glanced at the front of his trousers and then quickly away. Hardly a difficult deduction, but oh how the discovery has bloomed into something wonderful. And it bloomed again when he pressed the cane into your hands and murmured _make your mark,_ and again when you grappled at each other, biting and tearing. 

“Where are your thoughts, pet? Am I boring you?” He grips at your cunt then, big hand spanning you fully, grinding the heel of his hand against your mound _hard._ His fingers creep between your folds and he smirks at the wetness there because he hasn’t even done anything yet, but you are caught in the sphere of his influence and you are helpless against him. And you try to rock against his hand, try to chase the way he stands apart with the memory of how he’d feel against you, inside you. Even now your mind is wandering, the pressures of the day scratching and clawing at you. “Hmm, I see. Not ready for my hand there, are you? Yes, I know you’re wet, darling, but that doesn’t make you ready. When I have your mind completely, then I’ll take you. But not before then.”

He withdraws his hand then, rubbing wetness between his fingers. Without warning, he strikes you hard across the face, his handprint hot and burning and surely bruising your cheek. And there’s that coolness chasing after, your own fluids evaporating in the air. It’s filthy and humiliating and it jerks your hips forward, squeezes a whine from high in your throat. 

He strikes again, over your ribs, and it shouldn’t affect you as much as it does, it probably won’t even bruise, but it is so _loud,_ and the force of it rocks you in your ropes, feet shuffling and readjusting. He chases the strike with an ungentle dig of his fingers in between your ribs and _that_ will bruise, that makes your eyes roll back even as they prick with tears at the deep ache. 

“Mmm, so that’s it. Not sharpness, but pain that lingers.” And he starts to take you apart. The spaces between your ribs are all bruises by the time he’s done, and down he goes to the creases at the tops of your thighs; the marks he lays there almost have you opening your hand. Almost. But his thumbs stroke over the bruises, diffusing the ache, and warmth follows. And as he digs at the meat of your thighs, down even to the arches of your feet, the tears begin to fall. It feels like being run over by a carriage, only in slow motion. And a miracle happens. Your mind begins to track along the path of his hands, begins to blur at the edges until all you know is pain and his warm touch. And that’s good, because it means his hand returns to the apex of your thighs, means he smears slickness all over you, means his fingers press inside and find you waiting to call him home. 

He opens his flies then, lifting you up and onto his cock like it’s nothing, standing with his feet apart and his face tense with concentration, motionless against the weak movement of your hips. But you have no leverage like this, can’t even reach for him, and so he takes you fully at his leisure. His smile is warm and indulgent where his face is buried in the curve of your neck; he holds one hand under the curve of your ass and bars the other arm across your back; you are imprisoned and made motionless by the cage of his body. 

“Wrap your legs about my waist, darling,” he says, and his voice is starting to unravel around the edges. “I have to kiss you, _god,_ right this moment.” And so he removes his hands from your body, reaching for the gag, and as soon as your mouth is open to him he dives into you; he hitches your legs higher and at last lets himself loose. 

He can’t last, not like this, not with the joy of bruising you buzzing through his veins. But it’s unimportant; already you’re nearly there, the tender bruises on your thighs rubbing harshly against him as he thrusts, his mouth plush and unyielding, stealing the breath from your lungs. And like this, locked together as you are, you find clarity. Not of thought, because your mind is shredded and abandoned along the path of your bruises. No, it’s a clarity of sensation, a sudden sharpening of every nerve that has you screaming into his mouth as he finds that precipice and pulls you over it with him.


End file.
